Don't Cross the Road if You Can't Get Out of the Kitchen
by Syntyche
Summary: 3. Hershel patches Daryl up and gives him some advice Daryl isn't very keen on following.
1. The Suicide King

So right off the bat, I know there are a bunch of these type of fics already posted. I haven't read any of them yet, but I'm sure they're awesome. These ideas, however, have been rattling around in my brain after watching certain scenes and thinking, "_wow, Daryl totally could have gotten whumped there_," or something to that effect. So, shrug, here are a few of them.

**Title:** Don't Cross the Road if You Can't Get Out of the Kitchen

**Author:** Syntyche

**Rating:** T, for … well, a bunch of things. Just assume it's going to show up in here somewhere eventually. And apparently everyone I write is abnormally attracted to Daryl, so while there will be canon Daryl/Carol and Daryl/Beth fluff, don't be surprised to see Rick's open admiration and Shane's sneaky ways showing up randomly. I know, I was surprised, too.

**Disclaimer:** Walking Dead belongs to Robert Kirkman, I guess, and although I enjoy the comics very much, my hormones and I heartily applaud the addition of Daryl Dixon to the cast. Way to go, Norman Reedus, for having an entirely new character built around your audition for Merle. :D

**Synop: **Episode tags and stories to add angsty h/c and Daryl whump, and in rare instances of originality, attempt to explain what Daryl is up to when we don't see him. Full cast, Daryl-centric. Spoilers currently through season 4.

**Requests:** Absolutely. Something you want to see? A missing scene you're angsting for? Think Daryl should have taken a bit more damage somewhere? Let me know and I'll try to write something to your satisfaction.

**Reviews:** Yes. Absolutely. Please. I'll beg and it'll be shameless, or if anyone is interested in actually reading these stories, I'll just update and make Daryl beg instead.

**Current Episode: **3.9 "The Suicide King." After escaping Woodbury, Daryl stands his ground when Rick wants to leave Merle behind again.

Don't Cross the Road if You Can't Get Out of the Kitchen

By: Syntyche

The Suicide King

"It won't work."

Rick should have known it was the beginning of the end when he uttered those words, but - just like with Shane - he didn't want to recognize it, didn't want to see it for what it really was even though harsh reality, this time in the form of icy blue eyes instead of haunted brown ones, was staring right back at him, waiting expectantly for him to do the right thing.

"It's gotta." Two simple words from a man who never asked for anything for himself, who repeatedly and determinedly did what Rick and the others wanted from him without question, who had done his damnedest and somehow succeeded in keeping them alive this past winter. It was the hunter's own heartfelt plea for one thing _he_ wanted, when it was glaringly obvious to Rick that what he actually _needed_ was to see Hershel; the still-weeping gash across Daryl's cheekbone, for instance, required attention, and Rick could see the way the other man was coiled inward, curling protectively around his left side, favoring the fresh bruises that lay beneath his loose clothing - bruises from the man whose freedom Daryl seemed prepared to throw away his own for. His brother's salvation and safety: that was all he was asking for, that one thing.

One thing that, unfortunately, wasn't in Rick's power to give.

"It'll stir things up," Rick protested feebly, and Daryl … Daryl actually tried _negotiating _with him over Glenn and Maggie's protests; not begging, not demanding, not outright stating how it was going to be as Rick himself often did, but _asking_, asking Rick to see his point of view, asking for his brother not to be left behind again. It showed Rick just how far Daryl had come over the last year, metamorphosing from the hothead with a fiery temper that let his fists - or an axe, a gun, or his crossbow - speak for him.

" … so you're gonna cut Merle loose and bring the last samurai home with us?"

There it was: that word _us _that made Rick heave an unconscious sigh of relief. _Home with us._ Daryl would see reason. Daryl would cave. Daryl would do as asked, like always. No one except fuckin' Merle was staying behind today. _Home with us. _

"… Merle. Merle's blood." Daryl sounded so self-assured as he said it, so sure they would agree with him that this was absolutely the right thing to do. After all, hadn't he proven himself over and over time and again? He was so sure he could handle Merle if everyone would just fuckin' simmer down.

"No," Glenn interjected immediately, hands flexing uselessly as he remembers not just the damage done to his person, but the atrocities heaped upon Maggie. "Merle's _your _blood," he pointed out. "_My_ blood, my family, is standing right here, and waiting for us back at the prison."

"And you're part of that family," Rick was quick to add, intending for all the world to sound sincere, but even in his own mind sounding like he was merely throwing Daryl a bone, a nugget of amity to keep the hunter's abysmal self-esteem up and draw him back into the fold. "But he's not," Rick continued darkly, like he hadn't been the man who had handcuffed Merle on a roof and left him at the mercy of walkers and the elements, like he hadn't been standing on that same roof as Daryl grieved and raged at finding his brother's severed hand; like he hadn't heard the desperate cries of a breaking heart. But there had been a reason to leave Merle behind then, just as there was a reason now. "He's not," he repeated sternly, and Rick knew it was not to his credit that he deliberately used an authoritative tone Daryl tended to automatically respond to with a swiftly bowed head and trembling shoulders.

But Daryl looked at them then, and it wasn't in fear, or shock, or surprise, or even anger that narrowed his gaze as he took them in.

It was disbelief.

"Man, y'all don't know," he snapped, and one moment was all he gave for them to stop him from leaving, to protest he was wrong about them not knowing, to agree with him that this could be worked out for everyone, but Daryl already knew where they stood and where he stood, and it was on opposite sides of road.

Where what mattered to _him_ stood in the grand scheme of things.

"Fine," and if there was weariness in his graveled tone, he didn't even seem to care. "We'll fend for ourselves."

"That's not what I was saying," Glenn protested, hands outstretched to stop the hunter as Rick and Maggie stared on. Daryl shouldered his way past, heading for the car.

"No him, no me," Daryl said firmly, and it was clear he wasn't backing down. Rick only watched blankly, no words coming to mind as Daryl, calm and hurting but accepting of his lot in life, said his goodbyes like he'd always known he didn't quite belong, that he wasn't quite good enough for his group, that of course it would end this way.

_This isn't happening_, Rick thought, staring open-mouthed as the man who had easily become his most reliable asset - _friend_ \- strode towards the car, oblivious to the carnage he was leaving behind. A dozen thoughts flashed through Rick's mind and Daryl gave him a long glance, waiting him out one more time, but there were no words on his lips to say.

"Don't ask me to leave him again," Daryl murmured. "I already did that once," and still Rick couldn't say anything, couldn't begin to take away the burden of guilt that Daryl still carried for his brother even though he hadn't even been with Rick and the others in Atlanta when Merle had been left behind; he'd been out hunting trying to feed the quarry group. And still Rick said nothing, couldn't reach out to the man who had had his back more times than he could count.

He could only watch, silent with shock, as Daryl Dixon limped away.

OoOoOoOoOo

So I'm rather of the opinion that Daryl, despite everything, is deep down an optimist and his thought process - somewhat borne out by a comment from Merle in the episode that follows, _Home_ \- was to give Merle and Rick a little time to think it over while he slowly led Merle back to the prison. Seems reasonable to me. And yeah, I know this one kind of sucked, but it's my first shot at Walking Dead so I'm not gonna angst about it too much.

**Tomorrow's story: **_Triggerfinger! _In which Shane pays Daryl a little visit after he finds out that Daryl let Lori drive off after Rick on her own.


	2. Triggerfinger

**Emoryems**: Your review totally made my day! Thank you!

**Guest**: Good suggestion, thanks!

OoOoOoOoOo

**Current Episode**: 2.9 Triggerfinger, in which Daryl decides he's done looking for people.

Don't Cross the Road if You Can't Get Out of the Kitchen

By: Syntyche

_Triggerfinger_

When Shane found out from Carol that Daryl had let Lori go off searching for Rick alone, he knew it was time to pay that stupid redneck fucker another visit. After he'd had to lie to Lori to get her back to the farm, and then made the horrible mistake of mentioning the baby in front of Carl, Shane's anger was boiling over, and the second Dale and Andrea had led a faltering Lori into the house, Shane headed out back, out to the old crumbling brick chimney and the place Daryl had made for himself there away from the others.

The fact that Daryl was probably still smarting from their last private encounter did little to dissuade Shane; in fact, it angered him even more. Stupid fucking redneck needed to fucking stay in line and quit being such a pain in the ass: between his riling up people into believing Sophia was still alive, and then moving off to camp out here alone like a little sulking baby once they'd discovered that Sophia was most certainly _not_ alive, it was all Shane could do to keep himself from lining Daryl up right next to Rick and taking them both out.

Goddamn, he wished he hadn't taken those days at the quarry for granted: no Rick, and Merle at least had kept his little brother in line. Shit, Shane had had it fucking _easy_ and he hadn't even realized it.

Daryl's stupid little camp pissed him off. His stupid clothesline and his stupid squirrels and those stupid goddamn Walker ears he'd been wearing that day he _should _have died from the fall into the ravine or the almost impossible climb back out - but instead had staggered back to camp where he _should _have died from Andrea's bullet - and Shane cursed Andrea's inability to make a decent headshot; somehow the fact that she'd clipped the guy was even worse than not hitting him at all - but, no, Shane had seen Daryl's scars that day and knew immediately that Daryl Dixon was a survivor, and indeed had continued to survive his way into being the biggest pain in Shane's ass the former cop had ever had to deal with.

_Fucking _redneck_. _

Even in the low light of the fire Shane could see the blank, almost hollow look on Daryl's face; the look of someone so utterly lost didn't suit the brash hunter, but Shane didn't particularly care. He'd barely had time to duck behind a tree to avoid Carol as she'd stumbled back toward their camp, hand pressed against her mouth and eyes red and damp. Why the hell she bothered to try and reach someone as angry and foul as Dixon Shane couldn't begin to guess: by all rights she should despise everything about the man, not in the least the childish naïve hope he'd buoyed her up with while he'd kept up his pointless waste of searching for her lost daughter and hadn't even had the decency to get himself killed while doing it.

The fact that he'd been riling Carol up, pissed Shane off _even more_, if possible.

A hundred things to say all on the tip of his tongue, and he found himself staring silently down at the hunter as the other man poked at the dying fire. He knew that Dixon knew he was there so he waited, and sure enough, Daryl glanced up at him, raised an eyebrow mockingly, and looked back into the fire.

"Anything you want to say in your defense?" Shane finally asked, and he locked a grim smile behind his teeth as he moved to tower over the seated man and Daryl flinched back reflexively. Shane didn't know what had happened between Carol and Daryl, but whatever it was had clearly unhinged Dixon a little and Shane was glad for the edge.

Daryl snorted softly, fists clenching and unclenching, breathing picking up speed as he shifted restlessly in an attempt to cover his shying away, but it was too late; Shane had already locked onto his unease and was fully prepared to exploit it to his advantage. "I don't owe you or anyone anything," Daryl said, and there might have been an attempt to sound angry but in truth the man just sounded exhausted; Carol must have really run his stunted emotions through the ringer. Shane was viciously glad for it, hoped Carol had torn him to shreds because Shane certainly wasn't above stomping out here and tramping on the redneck's tattered remains.

Shane glared pointedly at Daryl, his hands going to his belt as he slowly worked the heavy buckle. Daryl's eyes tracked his movements, and he couldn't stop the almost imperceptible widening of his eyes or the sudden choke of fear that hitched his breath. Shane knew where the ropy scars hidden by Daryl's sleeveless shirt had come from, and his belt felt weighted in his hands as he slid it from his belt loops, folded it over, gave a _snap!_ that sounded way too loud in the very still air.

Daryl glared at him defiantly, and Shane relished the fear there; Dixon was a fighter, yeah, but he was still wounded, still battered, and still no match for Shane even on a good day. "I didn' tell her to go off on her own, that was her own stupid fault," Daryl snarled, a near-frantic whine in his undertone, and Shane saw red. Not only because Dixon was right, but because Lori had gone to Daryl, hadn't come to him, didn't trust him, didn't want his help. Hell, he'd had to _lie_ to her to get her back and now she hated him even more for that.

And that was before he'd let slip about the baby.

He saw Daryl tense up, knew he was expecting the blow.

Knew Daryl wouldn't fight him because they both knew he deserved it.

"You're so fucking lucky she's okay," Shane spat, "or I would have killed you right here."

"You could try," Daryl growled, but there was no spark in his eyes, no fire left. There hadn't been since Sophia had walked out of that barn.

Shane's hands were around Daryl's neck before even either of them really knew it, applying pressure, squeezing just right. Daryl's eyes widened, his own hands automatically lifting to Shane's arms to pry them away but the attempt was half-hearted - the redneck's instinct to live hadn't kicked in yet - but Shane batted him away, pinioning his wrists with one hand tightly while keeping his grip locked around Daryl's throat. Daryl was strong, wiry, but his injuries and the walloping Shane had given him before had taken a toll and he didn't much have the energy to do a whole lot of fighting back.

"I could kill you right now," Shane hissed, almost nose-to-nose with the gasping redneck. Spit from his angry words peppered Daryl's face. "End your useless life right now and save us all from your fucking stupidity."

"Then fuckin' do it," Daryl spat back at him, writhing and squirming. "Gotta keep your murder streak alive, I guess, if'n you can't get ahold of Rick next,"

Shane smashed his teeth together with a _crack_ as he went cold with fury; he pulled Daryl forward and then slammed him back against the crumbling stone chimney, once, twice, again and again until Daryl's head lolled against his chest or snapped back with each impact. The man's lips were turning blue by this point and fresh spots of red dotted the back of his shirt where jagged rocks had cut into the raised flesh of his back, and he wasn't fighting back at all much any more.

"You don't know shit," Shane bit out feverishly, shaking the limp man like a rag doll. "You're just a stupid, worthless redneck who should have moved on a long time ago." He was a little disappointed by the lack of fight Daryl put up, but he knew the man's self esteem was so low he probably believed every word Shane said. Shane twisted the knife a little deeper, pouring his rage, his anger, his frustration into each word. His belt was in the dirt and he snatched it up, dragged it down the side of Daryl's face, twitched it just under a small scar that marred Daryl's cheek. "You just Lori go off on her own, to face walkers and whatever else? Her life is worth ten - a hundred times what yours is, and you just let her go?" Shane shook his head slowly, a disappointed parent, a punishing father, disbelief washing over him in cold waves. "Well, let me tell you something, you fucking son of a bitch: Lori is pregnant, you asshole, and if anything happens to that baby because of you, I'll do worse than kill you, I swear."

A brief flash of emotion stabbed through Daryl's eyes - panic, regret, shame - but then the icy blue eyes unfocused, rolling in their sockets and Shane realized he'd increased the pressure more than he'd intended and the redneck was about to pass out. He eased his grip a fraction and Daryl drew in a few harsh, grating breaths on instinct that were painful to hear, like glass grinding out from his bruised throat.

"What do you want from me?" Daryl finally rasped out, panting and limp and near as defeated as Shane had ever seen him. "If you're gonna kill me, jus' do it."

Shane clicked his tongue, frowned as his mind raced ahead to the implications of actually murdering Dixon before he decided it was too much of a risk. "Too good to sully my hands on your dirty blood," he murmured. He finally released Daryl's throat but leaned back so his weight rested on the other man's outstretched legs, keeping him pinned - not that Daryl was struggling, he seemed to be having enough trouble just getting his breath back - toying with the thick leather belt in his hands. Daryl, he noticed, couldn't keep his widened eyes off of it though he glared at Shane fiercely, ignoring the discomfort of freshly opened wounds trickling weaving drops of crimson down his back, ignoring the disconcerting feeling of the droplets sliding down his scars like a trench.

"You think you're too good to be an errand boy?" Shane finally said lowly, "Well, that's exactly what you're going to be. I need something, you do it. Lori wants anything from you, you do it. Without question."

"Sure," Daryl snarked sarcastically. "You think I'm gonna roll over for you, you got another think coming,"

Shane thrust forward so his lips brushed Daryl's ear, his weight bearing down and trapping the scrabbling man's hips in the dirt. "You don't, and I'll roll you over myself. I'm sure you miss the feeling now that Merle's gone."

"You don' know what the _fuck_ you're talking about," Daryl's stuttering gasp was all the confirmation he needed and Shane felt a swell of triumph that once might have been shame at what he was suggesting; now it only fed his desire to retain more of the control that had slipped away from him more every day since Rick had set foot in their camp in the quarry. He moved a hand to Daryl's chest, palm splayed against the redneck's sweaty skin, sneering at the vicious flinch from the man below him, the racing of his heart beneath Shane's fingers. The man was terrified, and it made Shane smile.

"Do we understand each other?" he asked softly and Daryl couldn't bring himself to meet the other man's eyes, the heels of his boots digging jerkily in the dirt as he struggled and panicked. Shane's free hand immediately wrapped itself Daryl's hair and he forced the man to look at him; he knocked Daryl's head against the stone chimney and the rest of the fight went out of the hunter but Shane's fists still itched, his anger still too at the forefront to be finished here just yet.

"I said, do we understand each other? We're going to look for Rick in the morning; I want you ready to go, no problems."

He left the redneck in a puddle of his own blood, painting the dirty ground red. He'd kept his face untouched; he knew Daryl wouldn't volunteer anything and he didn't want to give the others a reason to ask the recluse anything. His belt felt heavy in his hands, sticky with blood, and he made a mental note to clean it before morning.

When Daryl showed up at the house the next day wearing a long sleeved jacket to cover the new bruises, his attitude cautiously submissive toward Shane, Shane nodded in satisfaction.

Maybe the man wasn't completely worthless, after all.

OoOoOoOoOo

_Next: _Hershel patches Daryl up and gives him some advice Daryl isn't too keen on following.


	3. Whipping Boy

**Current Timeframe: **Post S2 finale

Don't Cross the Road if You Can't Get Out of the Kitchen

By: Syntyche

_Whipping Boy _

They moved in rough formation, gaps here and there as a back turned unwittingly and revealed a weakness in their defense, or gaze slung left instead of right and a blind spot was created. The group was learning, but they had a long way to go before Daryl could feel even remotely safe traveling immediately within the ranks instead of at the front or rear, and especially on foot. The added limitations of the downpour clogging their vision made Daryl even more anxious as he drew in a step to cover a gap big Greene had accidentally created by turning more toward Glenn protectively.

The rain soaked their hair and clothes and did its part to crush their already flagging spirits: undoubtedly there were colds and headaches to be had just around the corner, and Hershel could only do so much. Lori was especially susceptible right now, and there were other, half-healed injuries among the group that little to nothing could be done for as it was. Daryl hissed as his foot turned sideways on a slick stone and the pain seemed to travel all the way to his teeth as his knee wrenched, his burning side twisting as he shifted to compensate.

_Push it down, push it down,_ he chanted to himself harshly; his crossbow seemed twice its normal weight in his tired arms and the strain of keeping it aloft wasn't doing him any favors, either. _Push it down, you worthless little fuck,_ his daddy demanded, and Merle added, _be a man and stop embarrassing me, Darlina!_ and Daryl gritted his teeth and pushed the pain into a tiny little ball that was almost manageable even though it radiated outward from his ragged bolt scar in hot waves. It was bad enough that he'd fallen down a ravine and impaled himself a few months back to begin with, but he certainly hadn't done the wound any favors by climbing back out of said ravine a time and a half and staggering back to the farm, after he'd yanked the fletched end of his bolt forward through his side. Good times.

At the front of the group Rick made a practiced gesture and T-Dog slid in with the wire cutters, quickly snipping a large enough section of fencing they could slip through into the enclosed lot and Glenn wound a bit of cable through the gap to close them in once the last of their group - Carl, peering out from under his hat as he covered the rear - had clambered through.

Rick paused again, a little uncertain as he surveyed the rows and rows of storage units, but they didn't have a lot of time to stand there blinking stupidly in the rain and Daryl pushed forward impatiently, heading past the smaller 10x10 units for something larger. Another wave to T brought the bolt cutters forward once more and the larger man snapped the padlocks off easily. The storage units, at least, were dry, which after weeks of relentless rain was a meager blessing in itself. The herd would probably find them soon enough, but for now they could pull down the aluminum door, leaving it open just enough for their lookout on the roof to scramble inside if necessary.

Daryl had immediately started to scale the roof to adopt his usual position as lookout, but a curt nod from Hershel to Rick put an end to that; T-Dog prowled the roof now, and Daryl was left with a relieved but sick heaviness in his stomach that somehow Hershel _knew_ and it wouldn't be long before he found himself the subject of one of Hershel's brisk examinations.

Dust clogged their noses as they shifted and hauled plastic-wrapped furniture to make their new space a little more comfortable: a musty couch and a few battered chairs that would likely never be used again once their group abandoned this place were arranged close together, and long-forgotten boxes holding things that people hadn't even had a use for _before_ the world went to hell were shoved aside. The plus side of this entire shitty situation was that the sealed boxes could keep Carl occupied for hours digging and looking … he tended to wander off a lot less after the farm, but it was still enough to turn Rick's hair even greyer.

Rick and Daryl pushed a couch against the far wall and Hershel helped Lori sit while her husband turned his back coldly. The Grimes seemed to be locked in one long fight, always about something or another, and the latest bout was whether to go with Glenn's suggestion of checking out the storage units, or trying to find and clear a house to hole up in with at least an equal measure of defense. They had a decent amount of food at least, from the last development they'd been through, so the fenced-in safety of the storage unit lot had swayed Rick's mind and that had been that.

Lori was swiftly bookended on the couch by Carol and little Greene and the three of them huddled and shivered while big Greene and Glenn determinedly rifled through hastily opened boxes for dry clothing and blankets. Lori's stomach had just started to swell, and Daryl knew it wouldn't be much longer before her already grotesquely skinny frame was pushed to its limits by the baby growing inside her. She was already wan and pale; some kind of shit had gone down between the Grimes that all of them were aware of but none of them talked about. Daryl personally didn't give a fuck and made himself scarce whenever a personal dispute between the two brewed on the horizon, nudged against the rough edges of his memories and reminded him of dear old home. He had enough memories of how fucked up his life had been without adding in the damned soap opera the two of 'em and Shane had created at the farm - Daryl's biggest regret was that he hadn't moved his tent away from them all _sooner._

Well, maybe that wasn't his _biggest_ regret - he twisted uncomfortably at the memory of the hurt on Carol's face; she'd pushed him, backed him into a corner, but he'd still been horrible to her and that was unforgivable - but it was pretty high on his list of regrets from last summer, hours of time wasted not giving a single fuck if Lori ended up with Rick, or Lori ended up with Shane, or _Rick_ ended up with Shane …

The thought trailed away as a quiet, keening groan slipped from his lips and Daryl immediately shoved a ragged thumbnail in his mouth and put on his best pissed off face: no fucking way that sound came from him. His free arm wrapped around his ribs as one of his other regrets from the summer came back to greet him in a way that had his breath clawing at his throat as he slowly slid down the wall he was braced against, legs splaying in front of him carelessly.

"Are you all right?" Rick demanded, catching sight of the winded hunter and Daryl nodded tightly.

"Jus' need a minute," he gasped, and Rick nodded because they'd been here before; they were all tired, all on their last legs. Rick waited one more beat for a follow-up _I'm really okay_ nod from Daryl before slipping out into the rain to prowl the lot perimeter. Despite himself, Daryl's eyes were starting to slide closed, he was so damn tired, he really did need just a minute and then he'd go out and help Rick or spell T, at least be some kind of useful.

Someone settled next to him and Daryl's eyes snapped open, blurry gaze struggling to focus as his hand closed around the hilt of his knife at his belt and a muffled curse sprang to his lips. Hershel's warm grip circled his wrist in a gesture meant to calm but only succeeded in aggravating his drifting mind further and Daryl struggled while Hershel called his name quietly until the hunter forced himself to breathe, to pull his shaking shoulders in tighter as he curled defensively around his bolt scar.

"I know it's bothering you," Hershel said without preamble, as if the vet hadn't just witnessed Daryl's completely pathetic display of nerves and Daryl's cheeks colored in embarrassment.

Hershel carefully moved his hands to Daryl's injured flank and Daryl flinched hard despite himself, and damn it this shit was humiliating and why he couldn't just _get over it_ was something he'd struggled with for years, a weakness that needed culled, one he couldn't seem to control and his father and Merle and, hell, even Shane had used against him.

Daryl bit his lip, chewed his abused thumbnail, and squirmed relentlessly while Hershel poked and prodded and did his best to be discreet but everyone else was _right there_ and of course they were pretending not to notice but of course the Daryl Dixon Show was best thing on right now - _watch as the stupid jumpy redneck tries to get past his childhood issues and falls down a ravine, impaling himself on his own bolt in a freak accident that would trouble him for months if not the rest of his undoubtedly short, unremarkable life!_

Hershel prodded his scar _hard_ and Daryl tried not to yelp as he wondered if the Daryl Dixon Show made for better watching than Days of Our Grimes.

"It's just a little aggravated," the vet pronounced, satisfied as he leaned back on his heels, and Daryl mustered up a smile that was more frightening than anything, all gritted teeth and feral animal eyes.

Hershel winced.

"Okay, then," Daryl said after a moment, when it appeared Hershel was more than content to just stare at him thoughtfully without making any move to go do something else. "All set then. Off you get." He made a little shooing motion with his hands that Hershel ignored completely.

"Lori sure looks uncomfortable," Daryl tried again, even though this was a blatant lie because it appeared she - and everyone else but him, actually - had found dry clothing to change into and even a few blankets to wrap up in. "Might want to check on her," he suggested anyway.

"I want you to think about something, son," Hershel finally said quietly; he moved his hand to clamp onto Daryl's shoulder and Daryl winced, which only seemed to encourage Hershel. "Think about trying something for me."

Daryl immediately flipped his hand upward into a halting gesture. "I'ma stop you right there, doc," he began, not even wanting to know what the vet wanted Daryl to try _for him_, but Hershel, predictably, ignored him because for whatever reason - Daryl had his suspicions it was because he was used to working with animals - Hershel was completely comfortable dealing with all of Daryl's fidgety, finicky weirdness and just continued on like Daryl's inability to sit still unless he was completely exhausted beyond his reserves didn't bother him in the slightest.

Hershel was talking so Daryl tuned back in to listen despite his initial protest; he actually sort of liked the vet because he didn't take any of Daryl's shit - or anyone else's, for that matter. "I understand it's hard for you when people touch you, and make loud noises. You can't completely control those things."

This wasn't what Daryl had been expecting and it sort of freaked him out a little that Hershel was bringing this up now. The fact that his back was literally to the wall wasn't helping. His fingers twitched and he clenched his fists to keep them still. His right leg began bouncing. Fuck, he really hoped no one was listening to Hershel - now would be a really good time for little Greene to start singing or Carl to get lost.

"What you _can_ do is control how _you_ touch people," Hershel said.

Daryl squinted up at him, looking comically annoyed despite the lines of pain deepening around his eyes as the burning in his side refused to diminish. "I don't like touchin' people," he pointed out.

"I've noticed," Hershel chuckled a little and Daryl frowned. "You should smile more, too," Hershel added.

"Stop watching me, old man," Daryl muttered, to which the vet just smiled and patted his knee, his eyebrow lifting when Daryl glared at him and forced his leg to remain still in a very _I don't need your advice_ kind of way, but then something clattered over in the corner and Daryl started and then he sighed because he knew he was basically a lost cause.

"Just try it," Hershel advised, and Daryl studiously looked away in an attempt to appear extremely focused on anything other than this conversation until Hershel moved away and went off to help look for Carl.

It wasn't a terrible idea, Daryl knew. It was just … he just didn't want to. He'd already gotten in too deep with the group when he'd gone looking for Sophia, when he'd gone back for Carol, when he'd refused to abandon them after the herd had taken the farm. But … he supposed … if he wasn't planning on leaving - which he wasn't, no way in hell could any of them make it alone - he could … probably … maybe give it a try.

The first time he reached out to Carol awkwardly, it scared the shit out of them both. It wasn't much, just a gentle and hesitant pat to the back of her shoulder like he'd seen Hershel do with Lori, but the blinding smile Carol shot him once she'd recovered from the shock had him immediately scuttling away in embarrassment. Carol smiled at him a lot more after that though, and Daryl found a little of the uncomfortable awkwardness between them lessened each time she did.

A few weeks later, he was brave enough to try a manly forearm grab to Rick - that was a tough one because it meant he had to let Rick clasp his fingers around Daryl's arm and Daryl's breath hitched wildly at the contact, but he knew Rick wouldn't hurt him, wouldn't leave bruises, wasn't pulling him in to crack a fist against his jaw. It was a simple gesture but it seemed to help Rick as much as it helped Daryl; the sheriff was in his own private hell these days: estranged from his wife, betrayed by his best friend, trying to lead a group that was barely beyond mutiny half the time.

The third time wasn't his doing, really; he'd waded into a mess of walkers and saved T-Dog and T had been so relieved he'd pulled Daryl into the burliest hug the hunter had ever experienced and it was too much, way _way_ too much and Daryl froze and cursed Hershel's advice and his heart stuttered a few times but he could _fucking do this_ so he pulled in a few quick breaths and made the fist that was about to land in T-Dog's kidneys wrap carefully around T's shoulder instead and he even thumped it against T's meaty back a few times half-heartedly. At that point it was T-Dog that nearly crumpled in shock, so they were even and Daryl gave the other man a weird sort of half-grin he hoped completed the manly moment so he could extricate himself from the fleshy embrace.

Daryl caught Hershel's eye as he backed away and the vet was looking on approvingly; Daryl sighed and rolled his eyes, because of course Hershel would be one of those _I told you so, what did I tell you, didn't I tell you? _types. Spitefully, Daryl shot Hershel the same stunted smile he'd used on T, the smile of a man who didn't really know how to make the gesture, and Daryl was nastily pleased by the look of vague horror that crossed the vet's face. Yeah, he was an ugly fucker and he knew it, and half-feral to boot, but damn it, he'd patted Carol's shoulder and returned T-Dog's hug and even exchanged an arm-clasping gesture of mutual manliness with Rick, so in all, he guessed, it wasn't too bad for a month of trying.

Damned if they thought they could get him to smile more, though.

OoOoOoOoOo

Thanks for reading! Please leave a review if you have a minute - even though I'm writing these for my own whump-loving heart, it's just nice to know what you think. This one wasn't very h/c, but I think if I do another one it'll be something whumpy from season 1 or season 4 … any ideas?


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